Twice on the Divan
by Lamplighter1890
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is presumed to be dead - but he is very much alive and is about to encounter someone he never thought he would see again. No, not Professor Moriarty or an old adversary, but one who was so singular in their cleverness that they forever have his respect and admiration.


The pungent, spicy, smell yanked him into consciousness, and he sat up and brushed the air in front of his nose in a reflexive but vain effort to eliminate it.

A sharp needle of pain shot through his head, followed by a throbbing ache that resonated like a bass drum. He pressed his hand against his forehead in a desperate plea for relief.

"Easy Mr. Holmes, easy... you are safe now," said a calm, soothing voice. A woman's voice - a familiar voice.

Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes and began to scan the room, slowly adjusting to the dim lighting, he found that he was sitting upon a divan in an unfamiliar room. His gaze fell upon a woman sitting to his far right, near the head of the divan. He swung his legs around and turned to face her, and it was then that he recognized that she was "The Woman." Also known as Mrs. Irene Norton, or perhaps better known by her maiden and stage name, Irene Adler.

"Go slowly Mr. Holmes, as you have experienced a tremendous knock on the head."

"Mrs. Norton...Irene?"

"This is the second time I have brought you into my parlor after you have been assaulted, Mr. Holmes."

Mrs. Norton held a thin stick of incense from which floated a long, delicate, serpentine stream of smoke. She stood, walked over to a table and set it down on a plate, then she picked up a bell and rang it. An older woman entered the room, Mrs. Norton spoke to her in Farsi, she bowed and exited, closing the doors behind her.

Eyes now adjusted to the dim lighting, Sherlock Holmes looked around the well-appointed room. It was a parlor, spacious, and decorated in a mix of Persian and European decor - except for an American cowboy style hat. An old fashioned pianoforte and a music stand dominated the center of the room. The window shutters were closed and the drapes were partially drawn, but slices of sunshine still managed to cut into the room giving color and shape to its contents.

The servant re-entered the room, this time carrying a tray laden with cups and a teapot.

"Thank you Bahman, that will do," said Mrs. Norton, and with that, the servant set the tray onto the table next to the incense plate, bowed and exited the room.

"I ordered coffee, as I think you will want something a little stronger than tea but weaker than whiskey."

She filled two cups with hot, thick, black coffee and handed him a cup and saucer. He held it before his face and took in the smell of the steaming black liquid. The strong earthy aroma was a welcome change from the spicey smell of the incense, and he breathed it in as if it had life-giving properties. He sipped gingerly, but he was used to the strong coffee served throughout the near eastern countries of Arabia - but now he was in Persia wasn't he? He set his cup down on his lap and looked up at Mrs. Norton, who had remained quiet while he drank his coffee, and regained his focus. He looked at "The Woman" and marveled, as it had been years since they last met, and still her beauty was unrivaled.

Had she aged a day? Was it a trick of the light?

"Mrs. Norton, it is good to see you, or should I say it is surprising to see you."

"Mr. Holmes, no doubt you want to know where you are, how you came to be here and how it is that I am serving you coffee," matter of factly stated the only woman to best the great detective.

Holmes just looked her in the eye and nodded his consent.

"You see Sherlock, after our encounter, I fled London with my husband Godfry and took up residence in Paris, at least for a time. We had money, well some, so we left Paris and began to travel all around Europe... Amsterdam, Munich, Vienna, Florence. It was wonderful, really, like a fairy tale for me."

Then she paused, stood up, set her cup down, and walked over to the windows where she moved the drape to peak outside.

"But the King hadn't forgotten about me, and his agents followed us wherever we traveled," she said in an almost hushed tone.

"Followed? But the King was so confident as to the safety of the photograph at the conclusion of our business," replied Holmes.

"Yes, perhaps for a time... but he is a little man, full of a little man's insecurities. It couldn't be helped."

She walked over to him and taking his cup, poured him another cup of coffee. He remained silent and waited for her to tell a tale held in secret for too long.

"So, we fled Europe and eventually ended up here, in Persia. My husband landed a position at the Dar ul-Funun Institute for Learning here in Tehran, teaching western law. Ah, you might think that we would stick out like a sore thumb here, but in actuality, there are several European professors on the faculty, and Godfrey chose to drop the name Norton and work under his middle name of Edward - well we use Edwards."

He watched her closely as she talked. No, he didn't watch her as much as he LOOKED at her. He examined each feature; the line of her neck, her beautiful brown hair; the graceful movement of her hands; the way she walked and stood and how she tilted her head when glancing at him. But, at times she seemed to be posing or utilizing well-practiced gestures. Throwbacks to her years on stage? A symptom of nerves? Perhaps, reliance on what is known and practiced to find a level of comfort in an unanticipated situation.

"But before I tell how you came to find yourself on my divan, again, you must first tell me why you are here in Tehran, and most specifically, why you were at the Institute for Learning?"

Her anxiety was palpable enough, and now Holmes could see why: she has been dodging the King's agents for years, and now, after a period of safety she comes face to face with the detective who unmasked her, here, at the far side of the world.

"Mrs. Norton -"

"Irene, please."

"Very well, Irene, I assure you that I am not under any agreement to locate you and that my presence here is completely coincidentally, albite fortunate."

"Fortunate?"

"I had quite resigned myself to never seeing you again, and that fate was a bitter pill."

"Sherlock, you flatter me."

"Yes."

Irene walked back to her chair and sat down opposite him; she could have touched him if she merely reached out.

"You were the victim of ruffians."

"Ruffians?"

"Yes, there are always some beggars and street types who hang around the entrance to the institute... looking for handouts or opportunities. It seems that a confrontation occurred between you and some of these men, who may have tried to rob you. They struck you with a rock just as my driver brought me up. I yelled at them, and my driver chased them off as I went to your aid."

"Yes, I remember two men approaching me with their hands out, and I tried to push past them when someone grabbed me, then I was struck on the head and went out."

"Which brings us back to my question: why exactly are you here, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"You see Irene, my journey here started when I was killed."

Holmes then relayed his tale about his pursuit of Professor Moriarity and their struggle at the Reichenbach Falls, the death of his nemesis and how he survived. He explained why he needed to disappear and his quest to ferret out the remaining pieces of Moriarty's organization. This quest led him all over Europe and into the far east until he eventually ended up in Tibet where he paused to rest, reflect, and learn.

Now, he is working his way back to Europe in the guise of a Norwegian adventurer named "Sigerson."

"I was at the institute simply to learn whatever I can about the application of opiates in eastern medicine."

He paused, then reached over and took her hands into his and rested them upon her lap. They looked at each other intently.

"Irene, I assure you, most earnestly, that I did not come here searching for you, but now, I am decidedly happy that I have found you."

The stage performer was not prepared for this moment, and this was a scene she had never rehearsed. She knew much about this man, but she really didn't know him at all. Here he was, in disguise again, just like the first time they had met, and yet here she was, her identity naked and exposed.

She returned his grasp, intertwining her fingers in his.

"You know Sherlock, here you are playing a Norwegian, and in our previous encounter you wore the disguise of a frail clergyman... how is a girl to know the real Sherlock Holmes?"

"Ah, yes, well my dear Mrs. Norton, you forget - or perhaps are unaware - that we met on a third occasion. I was the drunken groom who witnessed at your wedding."

Then he pulled out his pocket watch and held up the gold sovereign she had given him that day, now dangling from his watch chain.

"Well, that seals it, Sir, you are definitely not to be trusted!" and then she let out a laugh of surprise.

Holmes smiled and returned the watch and chain to its pocket.

"You seem quite recovered, would you like something stronger than coffee - brandy?"

Irene walked to a bar set and poured two glasses of brandy, then as she approached him she hesitated, stopped and looked at him with an expression of curiosity.

"Why did you keep it?"

"To mark one of the most unusual days in my career... a simple reminder of the twists of fate." He stood, walked over to her and took one of the glasses of brandy from her hands. They touched glasses, and each took a sip. She inched closer to him until they were almost touching. She had to look up to see his face as such was the difference in their heights. Then she smiled: a wry smile, a knowing smile, or perhaps a hopeful smile.

"No Sherlock, I think not. No, you are not a man who gives into flights of sentimentality or fancy. So I do not believe your explanation; no, in fact, I have a theory."

"Do continue Irene, I am as they say 'all ears.'"

"I don't believe that you kept the sovereign out of sentimentality for the occasion, or as a token; no Sir, I believe you kept it because of the giver, not the gift. I dare say, you had feelings for Miss Irene Adler."

Holmes smiled and taking a haughty tone exclaimed: "I see no evidence of personal attachment in the simple keeping of a coin."

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, I might be inclined to agree, but for an exacting, clever, inscrutable man such as yourself, to take such a token and to hang it on his watch chain, well, that sounds like the act of a man in love."

"A detective in love with a subject in his work?"

"No, Sherlock, a detective in love with the female subject who bested him." She reached up and ran her fingertips down his jaw and across his lips. They were close, very close and she found his warm breath exciting. He smelled of tobacco and danger.

Holmes started to raise his hand as if he meant to caress her face but abruptly stopped, his hand frozen in mid-air as if it had suddenly forgotten its purpose. He lowered his hand and placing it in his trouser pocket he turned away from her and walked over to the brandy decanter.

"I kept the gift because I cannot have the giver, I wear it on my chain because I will never wear her ring on my finger, and I kept her photograph so that on occasion I may gaze at her beauty."

"You kept my photograph? Where did you get that?"

"It was the photograph you left for the King; I took it from him as payment for my work."

At that she smiled, a small, sad smile. "Oh Sherlock, I am afraid that you do have it bad."

He returned her smile - albeit briefly. They remained quiet for a few moments, each lost in thought or struggling with newly discovered emotions.

"The afternoon is late, and Sherlock it is time for you to go back to England; there is work in London that needs you, and it is work that you need."

Holmes put down his glass and turned and faced The Woman. She was right of course; it was time.

He walked up to her, took her hand and kissed it. It was not a kiss of mannered affection, but an act of desire and respect.

And with that he released her hand, smiled at her, then he turned and walked towards the doors.

"Mr. Holmes..." she called out.

He stopped and turned back to look at her.

"The next time I see you, please come as yourself."

Sherlock smiled, blew her a kiss and left the room.


End file.
